


Look What I Did, I'm Happy

by Steve



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Modern AU, Past Abuse, Sibling Bonding, Time Skips, polynein if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 18:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18610342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: Beau doesn't even find out she has a baby brother until several months after his birth. She isn't sure how she is supposed to react to this new development.Or: BeauregardLionett, her stranger of a brother, and eighteen years of fumbling in the dark as they search for safe common ground.





	Look What I Did, I'm Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Was meant to be shorter, but then... This first part works well as a standalone piece until the distant day I get Part II posted, in any case.
> 
> Title is inspired by "Solemn Oath" - Band of Horses, the perfect Beauregard song as [one tumblr post](https://halfgap.tumblr.com/post/183614857110/kimabutch-i-was-looking-up-the-lyrics-to-solemn) pointed out to me.
> 
> I'm also counting this story as my contribution to Beau Week 2019, since it covers a few of the prompts there and the timing happened to match up. This event was such a good idea, you guys.

 

 

When her mother gives birth to Beauregard’s little brother, Beauregard is nineteen years old and about 340 miles away. She doesn’t even know her mother had been pregnant.

She finds out about him three months later.

She hasn’t seen or heard from her family since she was kicked out (or did she run away? Beau still can’t get that sorted in her head) almost two years ago. But now she’s jobless _again_ after getting fired for her “bad attitude” _again_ , and she’s broke and desperate and on the verge of getting evicted.

So Beau bites the bullet and dials her parents from a pay phone on a rainy summer evening. She once promised herself she’d never go crawling back to them no matter what happened to her, but dammit, she’s nineteen and alone and she doesn’t want to be homeless again. She can’t do this.

Then her father says—

“I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to come back right now, Beauregard.” He sounds distracted, impatient, every inch the man she remembers. “We... There are new circumstances to consider.”

He tells her about the baby, and all she feels is the rain soaking her clothes, sinking into her bones.

Her father is still talking. “Understand that a newborn child is a significant responsibility, and your mother and I are pouring all of our energy into him. It just isn’t a good time.”

“And you don’t want my fucked up self to rub off on him, right?” Beau means to sound scathing, _furious_ , but everything is coming out flat and numb. “I—I’d just be a bad influence, right? Wouldn’t want that.”

“Beauregard—”

“Will it ever be a good time? Do you—” Here her voice trembles, cracks, and it’s fucking embarrassing and she hates it, hates herself for being so goddamn weak and childish. “Be honest, dad, do you ever want me to come home?”

A slimy silence filled only by the faint humming of the phone line.

“I can wire you some money tomorrow, Beauregard,” he says finally, and this time there’s an actual, audible hint of regret in his tone. As if he’s something approaching sorry. “After that, well... It might be best for everyone if we all part ways for the foreseeable future.”

Beau takes a deep, shuddery breath and pretends she’s not crying like a pathetic little kid.

“Keep your money,” she rasps. “I won’t call again. I hope you guys get the perfect son you always wanted.”

She hangs up. She doesn’t call again.

 

+

 

Alistair Lionett is four years old when he first catches a glimpse of his big sister in person.

His mother had asked him to stay in his room and read a book or play Game Boy until their “guests” leave. He doesn’t, of course. The scene unfolding downstairs is too fascinating.

He can see everything from his hidden vantage point behind the second-floor railing. His parents are standing in the foyer, speaking in hushed, angry tones Alistair can’t decipher. He knows it’s the voice grown-ups use when they’re upset about something but don’t want him to hear about it.

Hovering by the front door is a man with dark orange hair and a very battered brown coat, as well as a very tall, very pale lady with her muscular arms folded across her chest like she’s a Hollywood bodyguard. But it’s obvious they’re not the ones Alistair’s parents are addressing.

Beauregard has her father’s sharp blue eyes and defined jaw line, her mother’s straight nose and thick, dark hair. Alistair’s eyes. Alistair’s nose and hair.

(He’d seen her in a photo only once before, a dusty old student card he found stuck underneath the living room couch. That was when his parents explained he had a big sister, but she didn’t like their family and they hadn’t seen her in a very long time.)

Alistair longs to go downstairs, get closer, get a better look at her to satisfy his burning curiosity. But to be honest, he’s kind of scared. Not of disobeying his mother, but of this mysterious long-lost sister and her strange friends, of the way Beauregard’s fists are clenched tight at her sides like she’s two seconds away from throwing a punch at Dad. Alistair’s never seen a real fight before except on TV, and now it looks like one might happen in his very own home.

The argument is heating up.

“You really think I’d never fucking try to come back?” Beauregard’s voice rises above the hushed angry grown-up tones that were in place until now. “Shit, did you think I was lying dead on a street corner or something? Is that what you _hoped_ happened to me? I guess that way it’d be easier for you to pretend I never fucking existed.”

“Watch what you say, Beauregard.” There’s his dad, sounding angrier than Alistair’s ever heard him, but not in a loud way like... like his daughter. His voice is steely sharp, cold and scary. “This is not your home anymore, and you are _trespassing._ Don’t you dare use that kind of language near my son.”

“Your son. Right. You mean my goddamn brother you won’t even let me meet? Whose name you won’t even tell me?”

“Please. You never showed much of an interest in getting acquainted with him before.”

Beauregard makes a strangled noise. “Yeah, as if I had any say in the matter. As if the two of you didn’t want to keep your _piece of shit_ mistake of a daughter as far away as possible from your _real_ kid, y’know, your golden second chance. Does he even know he has a sister?”

“Don’t make me warn you again about your profanity,” their father snaps. “And of course he knows, but at least you’re correct in assuming your influence would not be remotely beneficial to his wellbeing.”

“For Christ’s sake,” their mother cuts in, tired. “Let’s get this over with. If it’s money you need, Beauregard—”

“God.” Her voice breaks. “Goddammit. I don’t want your fucking money, when was I ever after your goddamn fucking money—”

“That’s _enough._ ”

Beauregard freezes. Goes very still and very quiet.

“I believe I told you to watch your language.” Now Thoreau Lionett is loud, as loud as Beauregard was. He takes a heavy step toward her and she flinches. “I’ve had enough of you barging in here, twisting a sad little story to win pity from your friends, acting like you were some kind of _victim_ when really it’s crystal clear you’re as selfish and manipulative as you were—”

“Nope.” A new contender enters the battle royale, smoothly cutting him off. “Be quiet and pipe down.”

The tall, pale woman’s voice is soft and even, but icy to the point that Alistair shivers. She’s by Beauregard’s side now, looming over Alistair’s father. He never thought Dad could look so short next to _anyone._ But he does, and the pale woman doesn’t even sound very angry yet.

Even at four years old, though, Alistair can sense she is dangerous.

There’s a long, tense silence as the woman surveys them coolly, edging forward to stand just slightly in front of Beauregard.

“We gave you every chance,” their mother says. “Every opportunity. I’m sorry you’ve forgotten that.”

Beauregard deflates, shrinks.

“I wasn’t lying, mom. I didn’t come for money.” She doesn’t sound angry anymore. She doesn’t sound like anything. “I didn’t want to come in the first place, but Fjord was saying—they... and the kid, he—” She exhales, shakes her head. “This was a stupid idea. I’ll leave.”

She turns for the door, not bothering to explain herself further. At the last second she seems to hesitate, stopping to toss one last request over her shoulder.

“Hey, uh... if the kid heard any of this, tell him I’m sorry.”

For one wild moment Alistair wants to run downstairs and meet his sister face-to-face, wants it more than anything. He wants her to _see_ him and he doesn’t even know why. But he doesn’t move. He’s still scared, confused, unable to understand anything that is transpiring.

“Alistair,” says his father, and for a second he thinks he’s finally caught him spying. But his gaze is still trained on his firstborn. “Your brother’s name is Alistair Lionett.”

Beauregard doesn’t reply. All she does is give a stiff nod before ducking her head and turning away for good. The tall, pale woman lays a hand on the small of her back and guides her toward the front door where the red-haired man is still waiting, silent and composed.

He is the only one who lingers, hovering by the doorway even after the two women have exited. Alistair can’t quite make out his expression from his vantage point, but he can tell the man is staring at Alistair’s parents.

“Beauregard is a bigger and better person than either of you will ever be,” he says quietly. Something about his tone frightens Alistair almost as much as the big, muscular woman did. “Even if you never see us again, I want you to remember that your daughter is thriving, and brilliant, and _loved_... despite the pile of _Scheiße_ she came from.”

Alistair’s parents don’t offer a response. At least, not any he can hear.

The man turns the doorknob and gives the house one last, long look before muttering, “At the very least... I pray for his sake that you raise your son with more kindness than you showed my friend.”

With that, he departs, front door slamming closed behind him.

The entire confrontation leaves a bad feeling coiled in Alistair’s ribs for the rest of the day, but soon enough it will fade into an odd, vaguely unpleasant memory full of people and words he could not possibly understand at his young age. For years, most everything involving his mysterious, long-lost sister will fall roughly into the same category.

 

+

 

Beau is twenty-eight years old and the happiest she’s ever been.

She realizes this one morning, waking up after spending the night again at Jester and Fjord’s place. Even at this early hour, bright sunlight is streaming through the pink sheer curtains of Jester’s bedroom window. Despite that, Jester herself is still snoring sound asleep in the bed they shared last night.

As she watches Jester drool onto the pillow, a wave of affection crashes through her chest and threatens to spill out of her pores and flood the whole apartment. She can hear the familiar sounds of Fjord frying up some breakfast in the kitchen: by now her stomach is conditioned to growl in response to Fjord’s lazy whistling and the low sizzle of the stove. It’s Thursday, too, meaning tonight she’ll get to see all the rest of her friends gathered in one place for their weekly movie/board games night at Molly and Yasha’s.

So she thinks to herself, _This is the happiest I’ve ever been._ It’s a scary thought, and a dangerous one, but for once Beau’s going to let herself enjoy it.

She leans down to press a soft kiss to Jester’s forehead.

“Hey, Jes,” she mumbles, “wake the heck up. We gotta get to work.”

Jester groans and wriggles away from her.

She rolls her eyes but knows she can’t really complain, considering how many times their current positions have been reversed. But at least Beau makes a habit of only sleeping in on weekends.

“Jes, c’mon,” she wheedles, prodding her shoulder. “You were the one who _told_ us we have to wake you up. Fjord’s making eggs!”

“Mmm,” Jester says into her pillow.

“And bacon, probably.”

“Choc’ waaaaff,” says Jester.

“Chocolate chip waffles? Uh, maybe, sure.” Beau turns her head and hollers, “Yo, Fjord! Can you put in those frozen waffles we got?”

“Already done,” he yells back. “Tell Jes she’s gonna be fucking late.”

“You’re gonna be fucking late,” she says.

“Fuuuuuck.” Jester finally sits up, hair an absolute mess. “You guys are the worst.”

“Nah, we’re not.”

Jester pecks her on the temple. “No, you’re not. You guys are sort of okay, I guess, and I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Fjord calls.

Jester disappears into the bathroom for a quick shower while Beau ambles into the kitchen, slugs Fjord semi-gently on the arm, and steals a piece of bacon from the frying pan, just managing not to burn her fingers. _Greasy goodness._

“If you get a bacterial infection from eating undercooked pork, I’m not driving ya to the hospital,” Fjord drawls, swatting her hand away when she reaches for another sizzling piece.

“Ah, chill out. I’m fine. You always overcook it.” She smirks. “Trust me, dude. I’m a health care professional.”

“Damn right you are,” he says, with this sudden deep fondness that makes Beau’s ears go warm.

After all this time, surprise sincerity is still the quickest way to catch Beau off-guard.

“ _You’re_ in a good mood today,” she says gruffly, leaning against the counter while he loads their plates with food.

Fjord opens his mouth to reply but Jester chooses that moment to burst into the kitchen, re-invigorated by her shower and greeting them with her usual infectious cheer. Lightning-fast, she plants two kisses on Fjord’s jaw, ruffles up Beau’s already unruly hair, and grabs a heaping plate of waffles to wolf down right there by the stove because of course she’s running late (in spite of everyone’s not-so-best efforts).

Fjord meets Beau’s gaze. They’re both wearing the same soft, crooked smile. A classic, dopey, Jester Lavorre smile.

“Yeah, well,” he says in response to her earlier remark, “I feel like there’s a lot to be happy about, that’s all.”

“Wow.” Beau nods, accepts the mug of coffee he slides to her. “Funny, ’cause I was thinking the exact same thing.”

Beau is twenty-eight years old and the happiest she’s ever been.

So of course, life decides it’s the perfect time to throw her a curveball.

 

+

 

“Hey, Lionett,” calls some guy in the mess whose name she can’t really remember. He’s one of the new occupational therapists, she’s pretty sure, and she hasn’t really worked with him. He’s got this round boyish face that makes him look more like a patient here than a staff member.

When she turns to him, she doesn’t bother masking her irritation. She doesn’t have much time for lunch, and spending it on small talk sounds exhausting when she has to funnel all of her learned social skills into actual work.

He grins at her, clearly not taking the hint.

“You’re, uh—you’re Dairon’s PTA, right?”

“Jeez, sure.” Beau rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I belong to her or something, y’know.”

But it is true she mostly only works with Dairon’s patients. The others think it’s weird that Dairon’s taken a liking to her of all people, since reportedly Dairon doesn’t really like _anybody_. Beau has no idea what the stern, intimidating PT sees in her, but honestly... her approval and attention do make Beau feel pretty damn good about herself. Not that Beau would ever admit this, of course.

“Yeah, whatever.” The dude waves off her snark. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t get you mixed up with someone else. That’d be darn embarrassing.” He laughs.

“Uh-huh.” She pokes at her sandwich. Bored already.

“I just wanted to say congrats. Big brains must run in your family, huh?”

Beau’s blood freezes in her veins at the ‘f’ word. No one’s used the ‘f’ word in relation to _her_ for a long, long time.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Um.” The guy shows her his fancy iPhone, uncertainty flashing across his face. “Well, this has to be your brother, right? Or cousin or something? My girlfriend is into this stuff and she thought this article was cute but I mean, he looks so much like you so I got excited. Shoot, I don’t mean that in like a racist way, I mean, he’s got the same last name as you, so—”

Beau’s already tuned out his awkward rambling, her eyes fixed on the article displayed on his phone screen. It’s something from some small-time local news outlet, not a big publication she or any of her friends would have seen:

**_9-YEAR-OLD BOY BECOMES YOUNGEST WINNER OF REGIONAL SPELLING BEE_ **

Below, a photo of a cherubic kid with blue eyes and freckly brown skin and a deeply familiar cocky grin. _Holy hell._ She doesn’t even need to look at the name in the article to know in her bones that it’s true, but she scrolls down anyway and there it is.

 _Alistair Lionett_.

For the first time in her life, she’s looking at the face of her baby brother.

 

+

 

“You sure about this?” asks Fjord. “You don’t have to, you know.”

Beau arches a brow. “I fucking know I don’t have to, but you sure were singing a different tune about five years ago.”

He doesn’t appear fazed by her unsubtle reminder that he was the one who persuaded her to try to meet her brother back then even if it meant coming into contact with her parents. It’s something that’s been re-hashed between the two of them enough over the years that it’s not so much a sore spot as it is a harmless flaky scab.

“Well, I wanted you to try, and you did,” he says steadily. “But it’s obvious your folks weren’t interested in trying at all, and you know I’m sorry for that. Now it doesn’t seem fair that you be the one to work to make amends, especially since you were never even the one in the wrong. They ought to be apologizing to you.”

Fjord’s voice hardens toward the end there. Yeah, after that not-so-great visit, none of Beau’s friends have been fans of her parents, to put it lightly. It makes Beau feel twitchy and warm in a sort of nice, sort of scary way. It’s been years, and she still isn’t sure what to make of having all these people who are ready to rush to her defense.

“I am in agreement with Fjord on this,” Yasha says, terse. She is perched on the arm of Molly’s chair, her legs sprawled across his lap. Her casual, relaxed posture is at complete odds with the dark storm brewing in her eyes. “You do not owe this child anything. And the rest of your family... they are owed _less_ than nothing.”

“I mean, I know that much.” Beau drags a restless hand through her hair. She got it cut even shorter recently, replacing her usual bun with a shaggy undercut. Her mother would hate it, she notes absently. “I don’t feel any, like, obligation, okay? It’s just... I actually want to meet the kid. I wanna know him.”

The truth of her words surprises even herself. But looking at that stupid article, that _photo_ and smirky face... she felt an entirely irrational surge of pride, along with a wild impulse to protect the kid. What the hell is she supposed to with that?

“Look,” she sighs. “It’s not that deep, really. Maybe more than anything, I’m just curious. I’m a curious person.”

“That,” says Caleb, “or very masochistic.”

“Or both,” Jester adds.

“Oh, definitely both,” Molly says knowingly, shit-eating grin on his lips.

Beau flips him off. He returns the gesture with gusto, and the familiarity of it all untwists some of the tension that’d been taking root in her gut. _No matter what,_ she reminds herself, _you’ll always have these dumbasses to come home to._

God. She loves them so much. It makes her want to puke, sometimes.

“You know whatever you want to do, we’ll back you up,” Nott interjects, abandoning their typical combative banter to instead sound dead serious for once. “I just think it’s fucking awful that you have to beg those _terrible people_ to let you see Alistair. He’s your brother.”

“Yeah, and they’re his parents,” she points out wryly. “They’re protective. What would you do if it were Luc?”

“If you were Luc’s long-lost, wayward big sister, I’d be—be so extremely grateful and happy to have you home, Beau. I’d want to keep my door open for you, no matter what.”

Nott holds her stare until Beau breaks and looks away, uncomfortable.

“Jeez, alright,” she mutters, “you’ve made your point.”

“Well said, Veth,” comes a low, approving voice. Caduceus strides into the living room at last, pointedly plopping a generous serving of pot roast and hot cup of tea in front of Beau.

“Holy fuck, Cad, I thought you passed out in the kitchen getting the ice cream or some shit.” She shakes her head, exasperated. “What do you expect me to do with this, we all just finished eating dinner like two hot seconds ago.”

“You looked like you needed it,” he says in his blunt, pleasant way. He claps her on the shoulder. “If you’re honestly full, I can just box it up later and you can take it home.”

Beau rolls her eyes. And starts eating. Caduceus is a really goddamn good cook, okay?

Meanwhile Caleb catches her eye. “I can write the, ah, the email to your parents for you, if you need me to. If it will save you some distress.”

“Or,” Yasha puts in, “I’m here, if you need any beating, stabbing, or angry staring done—”

“—or we can just chuck a Molotov cocktail at your old man’s Lexus,” suggests Molly, jovial. “Call it a night, eh?”

“No, but seriously.” Fjord shoots her a _look_. “You need me to drive, to come along with you, whatever... Safe to say any one of us would be happy to. Whatever you need.”

“Oh my god, stop it,” Beau groans through a mouthful of beef. “I get the damn point already, guys. Leave me alone.”

It’s just her stupid parents, anyway. Not evil supervillains or whatever the hell the group is making them out to be. Beau can handle them fine—she’s not a scared, angry, _fuck-up_ kid anymore.

“You of all people,” says Caleb dryly, “should know by now that this is a crowd of anxious, codependent busybodies. You are usually, ah, queen busybody.”

“Hey. I resent that statement. I mean, Nott is _right there_.”

Nott smacks a big, wet kiss to Beau’s forehead and ducks out of reach laughing before Beau can grab her in a headlock.

Caduceus just chuckles and pats Beau on the knee. When he meets her eyes, they share one of their familiar wordless exchanges and she finds herself remembering something he told her once, years ago—

_“You protect them. You stand up for them. Let them do the same for you.”_

Then Caduceus moves away with a smile, making room for the incoming rocket of blue energy hurtling into her lap.

“Aw, Beauuu.” Jester throws her arms around her neck, dropping a fond kiss on her nose. “Don’t be embarrassed. You have so many friends here who all _care_ about you so fucking much.”

“Ugh,” she grumbles, “that’s the damn problem.”

“Oh, don’t worry about your big bad rep,” Jester says archly. “We’ve all known you for so long that everybody already knows you’re a big softy. Also, you literally wear bright blue scrubs patterned with cute little cartoon birds to work every day, so.”

“Hey! That’s, like, standard shit in pediatrics, okay, it’s to make the kids feel more comfortable and crap.  Also, birds are dope.”

“Birds are nice,” Yasha agrees. She leans over to poke her arm. “But Jester’s right, too. You are very soft, you know.”

“Almost as soft as Deucey.” Nott grins.

Beau makes a show of sighing and face-palming, but in truth she has to hide a goofy smile behind her hand. Four or five years ago, she probably would have been thorny, defensive—angered and humiliated by everyone’s behavior. She’d probably think she was being coddled, made fun of, manipulated. She definitely would have punched someone by this point.

Now, now, with her friends joking and arguing and surrounding her on every side, all she feels is secure. Loved, maybe. It’s not a new feeling, not anymore.

 

+

 

In the end, the email she sends her parents is brief and direct. She makes no apologies. She doesn’t plead with them, or scramble to explain herself to them, or flatter them with hollow niceties. She doesn’t threaten them or rant at them, either. She just wants a chance to meet her baby brother.

About three weekends later, she’s in Fjord’s pickup braving the five-hour drive to—

Well. Not home. Never _home._ Her parents made that very clear, over and over and over again.

Beau closes her eyes and takes deep, measured breaths. Counts them. Listens to the erratic rhythm of her heartbeat, trying to _inhabit_ her _body_. God, she’s still so crap at meditation.

She and Jester are squished together in the backseat, with Fjord at the wheel because he insisted he knew the route better than anyone. To his credit, he’s probably driven all around the state at this point in his life. But he also has the worst taste in music, so Beau would almost prefer getting lost or stuck in traffic if it meant she didn’t have to endure his radio picks. Or his and Jester’s loud, spirited debates over his radio picks.

“What do you think your brother will be like, Beau?” Jester asks her, after concluding a rather in-depth discussion with Fjord about country pop vs. country rock.

Beau shrugs one shoulder. “I dunno. I mean, from that spelling bee thing we know he’s definitely a nerd, so maybe he’s an annoying Caleb-type. Photographic memory and all.”

Jester snorts. “Beau, _you’re_ a nerd.”

“Hey, I’m a smartass, not a nerd. There’s a difference.”

“You’re a smartass _and_ a nerd.”

“...whatever.” She lets it go for the moment.

Truth be told, Beau has a long, complicated history with books, studying, academic _achievement_. It can still be a bit of a sore spot, even now with a hard-won associate degree and a very official-looking license from the Texas Board of Physical Therapy Examiners under her belt.

“If your brother’s anything like you,” Fjord pipes up from the driver’s seat, “we’re in for a hell of a day. Just one Beau is a handful.”

“Ha, very funny.” She smirks. “My parents seem to actually like this one, so odds are the kid’s _nothing_ like me. Lucky him, right?”

Fjord chuckles along with her. “Yeah, probably for the best, huh?” he says.

Jester is frowning, apparently not a fan of this line of humor. _Right_. Some people actually have relationships with their mothers. The concept is alien to Beau—and to Fjord, even more so—but hey, they’re well into adulthood and not _that_ maladjusted. They can laugh about it now. Probably.

“What are your parents gonna be like today, Beau?” Jester sounds wary, hesitant, which is entirely unlike her. “Are they gonna act nice, or...”

“Hm. I mean, they agreed to let me see him. Although I bet that’s just ’cause they’re hoping I’ll make a terrible impression on him and he’ll stop wondering about me and won’t ever wanna see me again.” She barks a laugh, only a tiny bit bitter. “Hopefully we can keep it civil, though. I don’t wanna get into a shouting match in front of the kid.” Beau flushes. “Uh, not again, at least.”

“Yasha and Caleb told us how it went down last time,” Fjord says. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I mean, it was a little my fault,” she says fairly. “Like, if you put my father and I in the same room, we’re just a ticking time bomb. We’ve always been like that, I guess.”

“That’s really shitty.” Jester huffs, the image of indignation. “Your dad sounds like a huge dick, and not the fun kind _._ ”

“First of all, _ew_. Secondly... Uh, sure, kinda?” Beau frowns, fingers fiddling with her shirt sleeve. Abruptly uncomfortable. “But so was I, y’know, I was such a rebellious asshole all the time. And he was just... really protective. Not a great combo, right?” She smiles weakly, shrugs. “Hopefully he gets along with my brother.”

“He’d better,” Fjord mutters. Something about his tone makes her eye twitch.

“Hey, it’s not like my mom and dad are bad people, necessarily.” She’s still fidgeting, not looking at Jester or Fjord. Concentrates instead on the nail of her thumb carving a pattern into her wrist. “They’re not, like, evil. Things just—just didn’t work between us. Couldn’t work. I was never what they wanted.”

That much is true. She had never been enough, ever.

Jester makes this small, upset noise.

“But,” she says slowly, “but Beau, your parents—they hurt you, right?”

“I don’t—” It’s suddenly very difficult to swallow. “Well, I mean...”

Jester lays a warm hand on her knee. She melts.

“...yeah, I guess.” She lets out a long breath, still scratching idly at her wrist. Her jaw aches, throbs, like her bones wanna leap out of her skin.

Another breath. Beauregard tries to focus on the weight of Jester’s hand, soft and familiar, but her mind is strangely blank. Distant.

“Yeah,” she repeats absently. “They did hurt me. In, ah... in all sorts of ways.”

The gentle weight on her knee increases, yanks her in a very Jester way back into the world, the present, and anchors her there to softer things. Beau looks at her, startled. Relaxes and rests her own hand on top of Jester’s.

“I want to kill them,” Jester says casually. “Both of them. I don’t really care if they’re, like, objectively bad people or not.”

“C’mon, Jes,” says Fjord, exasperated. “They still have a kid. What’ll happen to him?”

“He can come stay with us!”

“Huh.” He nods, apparently considering her words for a moment. “Right. Sounds solid, I’m in.”

“Jesus Christ, you guys.” She pulls away from Jester, rolling her eyes. “Can you please, like, have a little chill for once? Just a little.”

“Spoilsport,” Jester sighs. “We weren’t _actually_ gonna murder anyone—”

“Weren’t we?” says Fjord.

“—today, at least.”

“There we go.”

“Okay,” Beau cuts in loudly. “No more discussion of homicide or so help me, I will turn this car around, dammit.”

“You’re not even driving, Beau.”

“Whatever. That’s a minor obstacle.”

“So are those silly laws saying murder is wrong and a crime and blah, blah, blah, _blah_.”

“Not funny, Jes.”        

“A little funny,” says Fjord, winking at them in the rear-view mirror.

“...Alright.”

Beau cracks a small, creaky grin, leans her head on Jester’s shoulder before giving a gentle kick to the back of the driver’s seat.

“Alright, fine, it’s pretty funny. You assholes.”

 

+

 

For all their talk of murder, Fjord and Jester are terrifyingly good at acting civil.

Granted, Beau can practically hear Fjord slipping on his mask of silvery charisma, carefully crafting every word out of his mouth to be charming and opaque. And she _definitely_ hears that scary undercurrent in Jester’s voice that probably means she’s plotting _something_ involving destruction of private property, but still. She can only detect those things about Fjord and Jester because she knows them, knows them sometimes more than she knows herself.

Like, Beau could have never guessed she’d be so _pissed off_ , sitting here in her old living room while two of her best friends make pleasant conversation with her father. It’s like the three of them have access to a script Beau never got to read, and now she can’t find any of the words that are so easily coming to everyone else.

It doesn’t help that she feels like she’s being _vetted_ to see her own brother, because her parents undoubtedly still think she’s some kind of sleazy, toxic criminal or something. As such, her mom conveniently took Alistair to a friend’s house prior to Beauregard’s arrival and, “oh, they should be getting back any minute now, for the moment let’s just sit here and take apart every aspect of your adult life so I can be sure you won’t poison my progeny, shall we.”

At least right now, the three of them outnumber her father. And Fjord is taller than him, and Jester’s probably stronger than him because Jester’s stronger than most people. It’s stupid, but it makes Beau feel better, just like it did having Caleb and Yasha back her up last time she was here, an eternity ago. But last time, she didn’t want any of her friends to step in or confront her parents in any shape or form, which was why she brought _Caleb and Yasha_. This time, this time Fjord is animatedly talking to her father about cash flow statements or some shit while Jester’s sipping from a cup of tea he’d made her in the kitchen.

Her dad, offering _tea_ to her _friends._ It’s giving her goosebumps.

She eyes Jester’s drink. A spark of recognition.

Yeah, Beau’s pretty sure her dad chucked a cup from that same tea set at her head once when they were having some argument or another in this very living room. She managed to duck in time so it shattered to pieces against the wall behind her, but one of the errant shards did graze her cheek, very narrowly missing her eye. The thin scar’s long since faded from her skin, as if it was never there at all.

Oddly enough, the memory soothes her, even if she doesn’t know how to feel about her parents having kept this dumb, incomplete tea set from more than a decade ago. Or, maybe they just bought a replacement. An identical replacement.

“And you, Beauregard?”

She blinks, dragged out of her reverie by her father’s voice. _That’s_ an unpleasant throwback.

“We were just talking,” he explains, oh-so-painstakingly patient, “about what you’ve been doing since, ah, our previous family reunion.”

He speaks wryly, as if their confrontation five years ago is just an amusing inside joke now. _Oh, haha,_ she thinks, _my parents fucking hate me and made it clear they didn’t want to see me ever again!_

“Right. It’s been a while,” is what she says aloud.

Thing is, Beau’s actually really fucking proud of what she’s done with the last five years, how far she and all of her friends have come. And she just _knows_ her dad is going to shit all over it, like he always used to do with every good thing in her life.

“Well, I’m employed,” Beau says dryly. “No criminal record since turning 18. Do you need character references? A resume?”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that,” her father replies, matching her tone.

“...Cool.”

He exhales, frustrated. “I don’t understand what you’re playing at here, Beauregard. _You_ were the one to reach out to _us_ , and now you’re here in my home, just like you wanted. Yet you’re as sullen and difficult as ever.”

Beau bristles but before she can form a response, Fjord is already leaning forward in his seat.

“Now,” he cuts in calmly, “Beau is here to hang out with her kid brother, a perfectly reasonable thing for any big sister to wanna do. At this point I don’t reckon she owes you or your wife anything, least of all any speck of deference. So let’s just keep things as civil as possible, shall we?”

Her father narrows his eyes at Fjord, and Beau can practically see the gears shifting in his head as he re-evaluates his initial impressions of her friends.

Fjord just flashes his easy, pleasant smile. Meanwhile Jester inches closer to Beau and drapes a casual arm around her shoulders, winking at her dad as she does so.

Then—the sound of a key turning the lock of the front door.

“Holy shit,” Beau says aloud.

Her dad shoots her a glare.

She waves a hand in half-hearted apology. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Language. Kid can’t hear me _yet._ ”

The door opens and closes, and she can hear voices in the foyer, one low and wary, the other high-pitched, energetic, _excited._ Beau doesn’t remember ever getting up, but all of a sudden she’s standing. Waiting. Sweaty palms jammed in tight pockets.

And in comes bounding Alistair Lionett, their mother right behind him, a protective hand on his shoulder.

Beau blinks. Hard.

“Hi, mom,” she says, hoarse. Her eyes shift to the kid, a hot lump rising in her throat. “And, uh...”

The boy bounces forward, shrugging off his mother and reaching out his own hand in a frankly pompous greeting. There’s that same cocky smile on his lips, the one he was wearing in that newspaper photograph.

“I’m Alistair,” he says, formal and sunny and nervous all at once. “I’m your brother. Hi!”

Beau rolls her eyes, grinning weakly.

“Well, I know _that_ much.” She takes his hand, shakes it with some amusement. “I’m, ah... I’m Beau. You, um, you know about me?”

“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes, too, mirroring her.

“Hey, y’know,” Fjord stage-whispers, grinning, “I _do_ see a resemblance after all.”

Beau flicks her wrist at him and Jester still seated on the couch.

“Oh, uh, those dorks,” she says, voice still kind of rough. She clears her throat, pulling herself together. “Those are my friends. You can just ignore them.”

“Be- _au,_ ” complains Jester. She grins at the kid, waving with enthusiasm. Then she takes Fjord’s wrist, flopping it around to make him wave, too. “Hi, Alistair! I’m Jester. And that’s Fjord. We love Beau very much, and we’re so excited to meet you!”

“Yeah, hey, I’ll bet you’re even cooler than your big sister, right, Alistair?” Fjord gives the kid a friendly wink. Meanwhile Jester continues brandishing his arm like a wriggly fish.

Alistair waves at them, equal parts shy and bemused. He turns to Beau, though, beaming. “I like your friends.”

“Oh, ha _ha._ ” Beau smirks. “Of course you’d say that. They’re tryin’ to get on your good side.”

“...It’s—it’s good to see you’re doing well, Beauregard.”

Her head whips up at the sound of her mother’s voice. Somehow, for a few blissful moments Beau had managed to forget either of her parents were in the room.

She swallows back a dozen acerbic replies.

“Yeah, mom.” Their eyes meet. It hurts. “You, too.”

There’s a thick, awkward silence as mother and daughter take each other in. Beau’s taller than her now. When did that happen? She must not have ever noticed...

Her father clears his throat, loudly, and stands.

“Why doesn’t everyone take a seat,” he suggests, “and I’ll go into the kitchen and get some more tea.”

“Tea is boring and _gross_ ,” Alistair declares, making a face. “I want Sprite instead. Pleaaase?”

Beau flinches, but all her father does is give the boy a small, indulgent smile and a nod.

“I’ll go get the tea, then, _and_ some Sprite,” he amends, and she wonders if she’s imagining the undercurrent of affection, amusement in his voice. It’s not something she’s heard from her father in a long, long time, if ever.

Beau kinda wants to throw up.

When he comes back from the kitchen, he takes a seat on the couch with his wife and son, leaving Beau, Jester, and Fjord on the couch opposite them. The coffee table, now laden with a tray of fresh drinks, stands between the two sides, a very visible rift. Lionett vs. Not Lionett. Beau imagines they look like the scene of the world’s most awkward and bizarre debate tournament, or maybe a very strange therapy session.

“So, Beauregard, I believe you were just about to update us on how things have been going since your last visit.”

She represses the urge to scowl at her dad, choosing instead to lean into Jester’s warmth, her arm wrapped around her shoulders once again. She keeps her gaze trained on Alistair, avoids looking at their parents. The kid’s been staring all bright-eyed at her for the past few minutes, hanging on her every word.

“Everything’s been going well, I guess. Finished college a couple years ago, and I’ve been working at a pediatric hospital for a while now. Jes helped me get the job.”

Jester rolls her eyes. “I just gave you a referral. I didn’t even work there anymore! You got the job on your own, Beau, ’cause you’re super cool and smart and you graduated at the top of your class even though it was really hard, and...”

“Jeez, okay, Jester, I get it.” Beau’s ears are burning hot again.

Her dad arches a brow. “You’re a doctor?”

A stab of irritation. _A doctor, what the fuck?_ She was kicked out of this house before even finishing high school; did they think she was out there graduating with top grades and studying at Harvard, rolling in cash to pay for med school or some shit? She didn’t even fucking get her GED until around the time she met Fjord and Jester.

“No,” is all Beau says, doing her best to keep her tone as measured as possible. “I’m a PTA, actually. Physical therapist assistant. Graduated from ACC.”

“With full honors,” Fjord adds, grinning broadly.

Beau rolls her eyes again, regretting how Jester sitting between them prevents her from actualizing her desire to punch Fjord in the arm. _Christ, these two braggy dorks..._

Her parents’ expressions both sour, but Beau realizes she really, truly doesn’t give a shit. Her parents are the class of idiots who believe the only careers worth pursuing are law and investment banking. Their approval isn’t worth seeking, not for this.

 _Not for anything_ , she has to remind herself.

“That sounds so cool!” Alistair interjects. “You work at a _hospital._ Do you get to see the emergency room? Wait, what does ‘pediatric’ mean?”

“It means the hospital’s especially for kids.”

“It means Beau wears these adorable scrubs that have little cartoon birds on them.”

“Ah, shut up.”

“Oh, wow,” Alistair says admiringly. “That must mean you’re pretty good at being nice, ’cause they wouldn’t want mean people to help kids who are hurt, right?”

“Nah,” Beau drawls, shooting him her best smirk. “I’m really super mean and scary. Watch yourself, man.”

He narrows his eyes at her, considering her claim with care.

“That sounds fake,” he decides. “I’m gonna need supporting evidence.”

“Fu—I mean, dang, kid, you’re lawyer-ing up on me.” Beau turns to shoot a wink at Jester and Fjord, mouthing, _Caleb-type nerd._ Just as she predicted.

They chat a little longer about her job, then about Alistair’s school and friends. It’s surprisingly easy and nice, Fjord and Jester helping fuel the conversation with their characteristic charm (and plenty of teasing), while her parents mostly stay quiet and frown at their tea. They keep getting cut off by their excitable son or Beau’s friends, and she has to admit it’s sickly satisfying to be able to ignore them.

Later when Alistair starts talking animatedly about his Lego toys and favorite books, his eyes light up and he insists he has to show them to her, along with all the video games and “cool stuff” he has in his room—or, what used to be Beau’s room. She lets herself get dragged along by the wrist. Her parents seem unwilling to let Alistair spend any time alone with her, but Fjord and Jester instantly besiege them with distractions to prevent them from following their kids upstairs.

Beau smiles to herself, struck by a jolt of gratitude and affection.

The kid’s room looks much like what Beau expects from a typical grade-school boy’s bedroom, except maybe a bit tidier, and home to a lot more books. (So maybe kind of like Luc’s room, but with less weird chemistry stuff.) She’s pretty sure the room looked much like this when _she_ was a child, too, before she became a rebellious teenager intent on plastering every wall with punk posters and Hot Topic decor.

Idly, she presses her palm to a spot on the inside of the bedroom door. White and spotless.

Beau remembers how often she used to punch this same door along with the surrounding walls, sometimes cussing and yelling, but usually furiously silent except for the broken sounds of her strikes, her chest heaving, throat raw from shouting. She remembers pounding on that door till her knuckles were bleeding and swollen, leaving ugly red smears on the white wooden surface. She remembers feeling petty, purposely wiping her hand off on the door even after she calmed down, refusing to wash up in the bathroom or venture downstairs to get an ice pack for the injury. Her own little bloody wall art.

Now—white and spotless. She supposes she’s glad all the scars of her anger have been wiped from this room, nothing left to indicate this space has ever belonged to anybody but the happy, motor-mouth kid currently showing off his Harry Potter books and Pokémon games with smooth, undamaged hands.

“I mean, I think the Game Boy ones were way better than the current DS games,” Alistair explains with authority, waving around his copy of _Pokémon Pearl_. “But no one even _plays_ Game Boy anymore, so I guess this is okay.”

Beau chuckles, dropping cross-legged to the floor next to him.

“Wow, kid, you’re making me feel old,” she drawls. “Explain this to me, ’cause I’ve only ever tried out the, y’know, the Johto ones, I think.”

“Johto? Those are my favorite!” The boy beams.

His bright enthusiasm makes her chest ache, but not in an all bad way. It reminds her of some of her happier memories from this room, this house, the kinds of memories she chose to bury because she knew it’d be better to just feel bitter about the place she came from. Bitterness hurts less than pining, than grief, than missing a family she never really had in the first place.

Alistair spends the next hour showing her the world of the Nintendo DS _._ Then he shows her his books, and Lego sets, and Transformers. Hanging out with him isn’t effortless—there are moments Beau honestly has no idea what to say. Other times, her words get stuck in her throat and she freezes up as if she’s never talked to a kid before in her life, as if she doesn’t spend her career surrounded by them every day. None of those kids are her _brother_ , though. She has a poor track record with Lionetts.

But her brother is still a kid, and the great thing about kids is they don’t give a crap if you’re sometimes awkward and quiet. They’re usually happy just to have somebody listening as they ramble about their interests.

Alistair’s no exception. While he’s sharp, obviously intelligent—as evidenced by an impressive array of awards displayed proudly above his dresser—he acts like any other kid, excited to chatter on about his toys to his big sister, and occasionally not knowing the actual meanings of the words he can apparently spell so well in competition.

He’s got good instincts, though. In the time they spend together, both of them are careful not to make any mention of their parents.

“So, like, the loud blue lady,” Alistair says while they’re collaborating to build an absurdly complicated Lego pirate ship. He perks a brow at her. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Beau fumbles with the Lego bricks in her hand, almost dropping one.

“Uhh...” She can’t stop the soft, crooked smile. “Kinda, sure. Something like that.”

Alistair nods. “My friend Arthur has a girlfriend,” he tells her, very seriously. “It’s super gross. They hold hands all the time, and I heard she _kissed_ him once on the _face_.”

“Oh, yeah? Do you think Jester and I are gross?”

He considers it.

“Nah,” he decides. “She’s really nice, and funny, and you guys aren’t kissing each other on the face in front of everybody.”

Beau snickers. “Glad to have your approval.”

“Also, your relationship has a way better chance of lasting than Arthur’s does,” he says matter-of-factly. “I mean, they’re freaking eight!”

By the time the visit is ending, it’s past 7 in the evening, and Beau can tell she and her friends aren’t exactly welcome to stay for dinner.

In the foyer, Alistair stands next to his parents, watching Beau pull on her jacket with a strange look in his wide eyes.

“You’re—you’re gonna come visit again, right?” he asks, rare anxiety poking through his self-assured attitude. “Do you have to leave _tonight_ , Beau?”

“Oh, um...”

She trades glances with Fjord and Jester. In the end she can’t bring herself to lie.

“We’re actually gonna stay at a motel to rest up, and drive back tomorrow morning so we don’t get in too late. I could... Maybe we could take you out for breakfast tomorrow before we go, if that’s alright with—?”

Her eyes flicker to her parents. _Their_ parents.

“I think, maybe,” says her mother, frowning, “this has been eventful enough for one weekend.”

“I agree.” Her dad’s voice is flinty, but it softens a fraction when he rests a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Sorry, Alistair. Maybe—” He swallows, mouth twisting like he tastes something sour as he locks gazes with his daughter. “Perhaps next time. We’ll see.”

“Okay.” Beau’s voice is colder. A promise. “Next time.”

She rips her gaze away from him, looks instead at the identical pair of eyes on her brother’s face.

“Alright, Alistair?” she says, gruff, soft. “I’ll come visit again, and we can hang out. Maybe you can get my email address from—from your parents in the meantime, yeah? Write letters to me?”

Alistair stares back at her, quiet.

The next thing she knows, the kid’s surged forward and wrapped his arms around Beau’s waist, squishing his face against the front of her jacket. After a moment’s hesitation, she hugs him back. Her bones feel alien, creaky beneath her skin. Then a warm, strong hand squeezes her shoulder, and she doesn’t know if it belongs to Fjord or Jester but either way she thaws under their touch, tension bleeding out of her body. The hug becomes easier, softer.

When the boy pulls back, Beau smirks down at him.

“Do you even _have_ an email, kid?”

Alistair scoffs.

“Of course I do. I’m not a first grader.” He turns, shooting his parents a hopeful, pleading look. “You’ll give me Beau’s email, right? We can be pen pals! Except better because you know, we’re not wasting paper and it’s also way faster.”

Over his head, Beau raises her eyebrows at them, challenging.

_Go on. Burst the kid’s bubble. I fucking dare you._

“Sure, Alistair,” his mother sighs, sounding vaguely defeated. Tired. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Father and daughter make eye contact, then, both of them with tight jaws and squared shoulders. When he finally speaks he doesn’t sound tired like his wife. He doesn’t sound like anything at all.

“Have a safe drive, Beauregard.”

Beau grins at him, jagged and shark-like, mussing up Alistair’s hair before firing off a jaunty, sarcastic salute and ambling out the door.

“Bye, Alistair,” Jester singsongs, clinging to Fjord’s elbow. “It was so great to meet you! I hope we can see you again soon.”

“Yeah, stay sharp, kid.” Fjord claps him on the shoulder.

They leave without looking back. Well, Beau does take a small peek, but not at _them._ All she sees is her baby brother with that cocky, goofy smile on his face, hand raised in a goodbye, still raised even as the three of them get into Fjord’s car and start the engine. He stays like that until Beau lifts her arm too and returns the wave, and she doesn’t know if he can even see her do it but the kid finally drops his hand, stepping back into the yellow light of the house.

 

+

 

Fjord turns on his terrible country music. Her lungs fill with fresh air.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when I'll find the time to get Part II up but when I do, expect more complications and Lionett family drama.


End file.
